Miranda James - Classified as Murder

Stewart continued. “When she got a look at poor Eloise’s face, she knew right away what had happened.” He shuddered. “She was highly allergic to peanuts—Eloise, that is, not Aunt Daphne—and somehow she’d gotten hold of something that must have had peanuts in it. Aunt Daphne thought it was probably cookies, because there were only crumbs left on the plate.”

“That’s horrible,” Sean said. “Wouldn’t she be careful about eating things, knowing she had an allergy?”

“She was very careful,” Stewart said. “Loopy as she was most of the time, she knew better than to eat anything with peanuts. It really wasn’t an issue, though, because Uncle James wouldn’t have them in the house. He was deathly allergic to them, too.”

I couldn’t help recalling Mr. Delacorte’s body as I found it—the swollen, protruding tongue. An allergic reaction. Mr. Pendergrast believed Mr. Delacorte had eaten peanuts and died. And now Eloise. How very odd that two people in the same household died from the same allergy.

A faint memory stirred. One of the family members said something I was sure was relevant, but for the moment I couldn’t recall who had said it or what he or she had said.

“Don’t people who are allergic like that usually have epinephrine with them?” Sean frowned as he set down his mug. “I used to work with someone allergic to bees, and she always had one of those pen devices with her.”

“Eloise usually did, too.” Stewart looked ill all of a sudden. “But Aunt Daphne said it wasn’t with her when she found Eloise. She must have left it upstairs.”

“What I want to know is, if peanuts were banned from the house, how did Eloise get hold of cookies—or whatever it was—with peanuts in them?” I already knew the basic answer to that, but I felt I had to express the thought aloud.

“Obviously someone brought the cookies into the house for the express purpose of killing both Uncle James and Eloise.” Stewart sat back, stunned, even as he said the words. “But why was Eloise murdered, too?”

“Maybe she knew who killed your uncle,” Sean said. “Or maybe Hubert did it because he wants to be rid of her so badly. Or it could have been his girlfriend, what’s-her-name the librarian.”

“Anita,” I said. Was Anita really cold-blooded enough to murder her cousin? In my experience, Anita was completely self-absorbed, and I supposed that if she wanted something badly enough she might go to great lengths to get it—or him, in this case.

“I’ll put my money on Hubert.” Stewart’s face darkened. “He’s been trying to get shed of her for years.”

“Maybe he thought he’d inherit most of your uncle’s money and get rid of his wife, too.” Sean drained his mug and then set it down.

“That sounds like Hubert,” Stewart said. He picked Dante up from his lap, turned the dog’s head toward him, and kissed him on the nose. Then he set him on the floor. “Let’s not talk about this anymore. I think I’m going back up to bed and try to get some sleep.”

“Good idea.” I stood and started gathering the empty mugs.

“Thanks for the tea,” Stewart said. He stood and glanced down at the floor. “And thank all of you for listening. I really appreciate it.” His face had a tinge of red. I wondered whether he was embarrassed. Perhaps he simply wasn’t used to being comforted like this.

“You’re more than welcome,” I said. I felt sorry for him.

Sean clapped him on the back, and Stewart flushed more deeply. He muttered something I couldn’t catch and practically bolted out of the kitchen. The two pets ran after him.

“What did I do?” Sean appeared bewildered. “He shot out of here like I fired him from a cannon.”

For someone who had a gay friend very like Stewart, Sean was being pretty dense.

“Surely you can figure it out,” I said in a dry tone. “Think about it for a moment.”

Sean stared hard at me for a few seconds. Then it was his turn to blush. He crossed his arms over his chest and took a couple of deep breaths. “I do not need this right now.”

The phone rang. “Who on earth?” I said. I reached over and plucked the receiver off the wall.

“Good evening. I’d like to speak to Sean Harris.” The female caller spoke like someone used to giving orders. Her tone bordered on rudeness. She also had a faint English accent.

“Who is calling?” I didn’t bother trying to be polite.

“Tell him it’s Lorelei; there’s a good chap.”

I was not going to tolerate such bad manners. “I’m not your ‘good chap.’ I’m Sean’s father, and I’ll thank you not to speak to me like I’m your servant.” Without giving her time to respond, I said, “I’ll see if he wants to talk to you.”

I put my hand over the mouthpiece. “It’s some woman named Lorelei. Do you want to talk to her?”

Sean swore. “Tell her to . . .” Evidently he thought better of finishing that phrase. Instead he came over to me and thrust out his hand. “Let me talk to her.”

I handed over the receiver. I decided that a hasty retreat was in order. Before I was out of range, however, I heard Sean say in rough tones, “What the hell do you want, Lorelei? I told you the other day not to call me again. I thought you’d get the message when I didn’t answer your calls on my cell phone.”

On the second-floor landing I met Diesel on his way down from the third floor. “Did you help Stewart feel better, boy?” I bent to scratch behind his ears, and he rewarded me with his diesel-engine purr. “Come on, let’s go back to bed.”

Diesel and I were barely comfortable, settled down in our usual spots, when I heard a loud crash downstairs. I threw back the covers and ran downstairs. Diesel stayed in bed.

My chest was heaving slightly by the time I skidded to a stop in the doorway of the kitchen. I tried to catch my breath as I surveyed the scene in front of me. Sean stood at the sink, his back toward me, head down. On the floor near him lay the shards of at least two of the mugs we used earlier for our tea.

“What is going on here?” I said, trying to keep my voice level. “Did you throw those on the floor?” From the loudness of the crash, I figured he had to have thrown them deliberately on the floor.

“Not now, Dad.” Sean didn’t turn around. “I’ll clean up the mess and replace the damn mugs.”

“I’m getting really tired of waiting for you to find a good time to tell me what is going on with you.” I took three steps into the kitchen. “You can’t pull a stunt like this and not expect me to be annoyed and concerned. What is going on with you, son?”

Sean turned around then. He stared at me for a long moment. “Why do you even want to know?” His face reddened. “I don’t have to answer to you or anyone else.” He stepped over the debris on the floor and headed toward the utility room.

“Sean Robert Harris, you come back here. Don’t walk away from me when I’m talking to you.”

Sean turned around to scowl at me.

“And what do you mean by why would I even want to know?” I held on to my temper by the barest thread. “You’re my son. Naturally I want to know what’s going on in your life, especially if something’s bothering you.”

“Why now, all of a sudden?” Sean took a step in my direction, his face twisted in fury. “Tell me, Dad. You haven’t been very interested in my life the past four or five years. What’s so different now?”

“How can you say such a thing?” My head ached, my blood pressure had jumped so high. “We’ve talked on the phone several times a month for years.”

“Yeah, because I called you . How many times did you actually pick up the phone and call me , Dad?”